All But A Television Terror
by Milkingcows
Summary: "Amber Alert: Missing child of nineteen years, blonde hair, blue eyes, a bomber jacket and cargo pants. His name is Alfred F. Jones, and if anyone has seen him, they are to call the information line immediately!" Rating will go up for later chapters.


**Title: All But A Television Terror**

**Summary: "Amber Alert: Missing child of nineteen years, blonde hair, blue eyes, a bomber jacket and cargo pants. His name is Alfred F. Jones, and if anyone has seen him, they are to call the information line immediately!"**

**Words: 1,270 (_ _|| short.)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters. Only the plot belongs to me.**

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><p>'AMBER ALERT: CHILD MISSING. SUSPECT BELIEVED TO BE SIX FOOT FIVE AND TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. LAST SEEN WEARING BLACK SWEATSHIRT AND BLUE JEANS. IF YOU SEE THIS MAN, CALL THE NUMBER BELOW.'<p>

A picture of a shady man came up on screen, as well as big, bolded numbers underneath it. Britain sent a mere glance towards the television before looking back down at the stitching in his hands, nonchalantly minding the fact that a child was missing. Did America truly have no other way of looking for missing children? Could no one have stopped the kidnapper? The place had barely any order, unlike in England. However, he was struck as curious. Whoever the parents of the child was, they had most likely been horrified with the fact that their own kid was missing. /Bloody idiots/, just like a certain someone he knew.

'THE CHILD HAS DIRTY-BLONDE HAIR AND BLUE EYES. HE IS FIVE FOOT TWELVE AND ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS. LAST SEEN WEARING A BROWN BOMBER JACKET AND CARGO PANTS-'

The Brit's attention was caught and hooked, then, eyes flashing back up towards the screen. He even paused in the middle of his work, finding that he most certainly had to see a picture of this child with dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes, weighing one hundred and fifty-pounds and reaching up to a good five foot twelve. With a brown bomber jacket and cargo pants that he suspected just might be a tan...

'-GLASSES-,'

England sat up further in his seat, discarding his work on the black leather couch next to him, green eyes narrowing intensely on the television set now. This was too precisely accurate of a depiction on someone that he knew himself personally, had raised, had even chased away. This wasn't him though.

'-BLACK GLOVES-'

It wasn't.

'-BLACK BOOTS-'

_Was it?_

'-HIS NAME IS ALFRED F. JONES. IF YOU SEE THIS CHILD, CALL THE NUMBER BELOW IMMEDIATELY.' A picture. 'HE IS NINETEEN YEARS OF AGE.'

'Truly a shame, Dan. We'll find the kid, though. We gotta stay positive. And to make things positive, the weather is going to be fine this up and coming weekend...'

England indeed tried hard to control his breathing, to gasp for the air that surrounded him, however, none seemed to make it past his constricted throat and into his burning lungs. Alfred F. Jones. The 'child' that had been kidnapped, snatched in front of someone and manhandled, was Alfred F. Jones. America. The 'hero' nation. The child who's picture was shown up on the news - a picture of a man grinning crookedly, blue eyes shining, a cell-phone in his hand as he read something that he obviously had liked. It was a a picture that was slightly blurry, coming from most likely a security camera on the outside of the store. The time was in the top right corner - 13:28. Military time. As in this picture was taken a little over an hour ago, for now it was almost three in the afternoon.

The British country got to his feet and grabbed the remote off the coffee table set in front of him, turning off the television. He headed out of the living room and into the kitchen of the hotel he had been staying at while visiting his former country, reaching a hand out for the phone that was on the kitchen table. He was glad that one was allowed to make calls to the outside world - however, he was unsure of whether they allowed long-distance calls. Whatever, he would pay them for whatever complaints they had later. Now he had to focus on something.

The number he dialed rang once, twice, before it was picked up and a familiar voice came over the line. Usually it would have made Britain's skin crawl; however now he was too worried to think about his hatred and disliking as the other country spoke through the phone. "_Bonjour, mon ami_,"

England grimaced. France did not even know who was on the other side of the line... whatever. "France, it's me, Britain." he introduced hurriedly.

He heard a sultry laugh. "_Oui_, Britain?"

"I am sure you have not heard of this, for you are not in America..." the Brit heard a suggestive 'ooh', but ignored it for the well-being of himself and the people of this hotel who did not know of his temper. "but America, he's missing."

Then all sound ceased on the other end. "What did you zay?"

It was as though suddenly everything went wild inside the gentleman, and he gasped dramatically. "America-," he quickly decided against using that name in such a loud voice. "-_Alfred F. Jones_ is missing! Gone! Someone took him right out from under people's noses! No one can find him! There is an _Amber Alert _out for him!" the green-eyed male cried loudly into the receiver, suddenly feeling horrified beyond his wits. He was terrified. The boy that he had taken up, the boy that had grown into a man right under his own supervision (not even _his supervision_, England had been away in his own country most of the time), the man who had been mistaken for someone under the age of twenty-one was missing, gone, and no one knew where he was.

England felt on the verge of a panic attack.

"Calm down," came France's voice in a rather calming matter, though it brought no sense of comfort towards the near-hysterical male. "America is strong as a nation, he will be able to defend himself."

England shook his head, even if the other couldn't see or hear that. What was this? He didn't care about America! The other wanted independence, he had gotten independence! With independence came responsibilities, and that meant taking care of yourself!

So then why was the British man hurting so badly? He clutched at the clothes that covered his chest, trying to grab at the heart that throbbed painfully in his chest. He couldn't even count the beats per minute.

"I shall call ze meeting," After that was dial-tone, declaring that France had hung up after saying those words. What would calling a meeting help with, though? Would it somehow save the only country that had won freedom from Britain? The country that had grown up so quickly, that had stood before him on the battlefield and had beaten him? The country that ruthlessly poked fun at his eyebrows, his cooking, his 'imaginary friends'.

_Would calling a meeting protect_ America?

_Would calling a meeting protect his little boy?_

No. It wouldn't. England hung up the phone and made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch he had been sitting on minutes ago, pulling it on as he headed towards the door. Once yanking it open, he looked back around his apartment one last time, willing himself to calm down.

He had come here because America had asked him to 'hang out'. England had said that he would come, but not before calling him a 'bloody git'.

He regretted saying that, now. He regretted not going straight to America when he first came to this foreign place with it's cheeseburgers and loud people.

This was something he could not stop, though, walking out the door and slamming it behind him. He left from his room as _Arthur Kirkland_, a British man with high hopes of finding America.

Finding America? No, it was _Alfred_. Finding _Alfred F. Jones_.

Finding the 'hero' that couldn't even save himself.

Ha, the man truly was a 'bloody git' at times.


End file.
